


Day One

by TheIskra



Series: Gareth Mallory Character Studies [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIskra/pseuds/TheIskra
Summary: When the call comes, there's no hesitation.
Series: Gareth Mallory Character Studies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900219
Kudos: 26





	Day One

“Mallory,” the PM’s assistant’s voice announces over the speaker. With one functioning arm, he has been struggling with the brace, the lack of sleep, the pain and the slight delay that the pain medication is causing in his brain.

“Yes,” he says, trying not to sound impatient or angry as he attempts to button his shirt unsuccessfully, a task he’s been working on for the past twenty minutes.

“Silva killed M tonight at Skyfall. We’re debriefing Bond now. Your presence is required at 10 Downing immediately to be installed as the head of MI6.”

His fingers stop and he looks at the phone on the bed.

“Mallory, did you hear me?”

“Yes… I’m afraid I can’t drive in my current condition,” he says.

He’s told that a car is waiting out front and he glances through the window to see a black sedan with it’s lights on. He manages three of the buttons on his shirt and grabs his coat, phone, wallet and keys. “Why does every bloody thing I wear requires so much fucking work?”

He finds the only pair of loafers he owns and slides them on. He’s a right bloody mess, he thinks as he walks out to the car. “Sir,” the driver says to him.

In the early morning light, he attempts to continue to button his shirt. Now it pisses him off, despite the pain and he manages to get it as far as his neck before his door is opened and he’s ushered into the “war room”. There’s a monitor in the corner and Bond’s face appears. _Fuck,_ he thinks. “We found her in his arms in an old chapel near the Skyfall property. He wouldn’t let her go.”

The last he saw of Bond was at Whitehall. Cocky and capable. The man on the screen is a pale and exhausted shell of that. He can’t take his eyes away. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Well, he’s soon to be your charge, Mallory,” the PM says, handing him a stack of papers to sign. The flippancy pisses him off. “You’ll figure it out. By the way, your buttons are off” He glances down and sees his shirt and ignores it… finally. It doesn’t matter.

He signs the paperwork and is ushered to another room where he’s given a phone, a set of keys and moved then to a waiting car where he’s taken to the bunker. The first stop is Q branch. The room he was in only a few hours before. The frantic pace of the room, the energy is utterly gone. The young Quartermaster sits at a desk, his posture bent, eyes bloodshot. When his presence is announced, the man’s eyes are slow to move up to him and he stands.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he says, meaning it.

“Thank you, sir,” Q says, eyes down but voice steady. “I have your computer and the information you’ll need for your file credentials. I’m still working on having the locks changed and her files transferred to your personal server. I should be finished by the end of the hour.”

He has no bloody idea what time it is, barely of the day of the week either. He thanks Q and he’s ushered to Tanner’s desk, in an office across the hall. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says once more… something he’ll say a dozen or more times before he leaves for the day. Tanner nods, proper stoic face not changing much. He’s shown to the office, his office and is handed a single sheet of paper with his credentials. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

He wishes he had the painkillers he left at home, a good night sleep, and a properly buttoned shirt. But that’s not what’s happening. He doesn’t stop to think about anything for hours. His calendar is packed with meetings he inherited, with staff meetings, with MI5, with the CIA and others. Only when Tanner brings his lunch does he ask for someone to get painkillers to help dull the pain. He doesn’t remember what the doctor told him and doesn’t have the time to figure it out. He thinks of his old secretary… surely someone told her that he was moved here. 

Within ten minutes but a nurse enters with fresh bandaging for his wound. “May I,” she asks quietly. He nods and keeps listening to the call as she unbuttons his shirt, takes off his brace and changes the dressing. He notices vaguely that there is blood on the bandage and the sharp sting of antiseptic before she helps to button his shirt up properly and re-adjust the brace and leave silently. _Bloody hell, I could get used to this._ , he thinks as the pain starts to fade slightly.

He barely has time to go to the loo (conveniently a private one) fully appointed through a door in his office. There’s a shower and a collection of hotel-grade soaps and lotions. By the time his calls are over, he’s exhausted. Tanner pokes his head in and gives him a small smile. “The car is here to bring you home, sir.”

“How long did you work for her, Tanner?”

The question seems to take the man by surprise. “Five years, sir.”

He waits for a moment, then speaks. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Tanner. I understand if this is a difficult time. Please feel free to take any time you need.”

Tanner pauses for a moment before responding. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather stay useful.”

“Understood,” he replies. “I am sorry for your loss.”

His ride home is in darkness. When he woke up yesterday… the day before perhaps, he was the head of a committee. Now he was responsible for all of Britain’s intelligence. _Jesus,_ he sighs. There is a man working on the entrance of his flat, an earpiece visible. “Sir,” he says. “Installing security.”

“Yes, of course,” he says, irritated, in pain, exhausted.

His phone buzzes and he knows that now he doesn’t have the luxury of turning it off. “Mallory.”

“I apologize for the work being done,” he hears Q say. “I promise it will be finished quickly. I’d rather it be done correctly the first time.”

“Thank you, Q.” he says voice sharp before hanging up.

This is day one.


End file.
